


i'm starting to doubt your commitment to our situation

by vacant_lot



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Bloody Makeouts, M/M, Mentions of Friend Groups, Mentions of Sex, Older Ugly Teenagers, Sloppy Makeouts, Tame Rutting, Yikes, conflicted feelings, hand holding, mentions of parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7769626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacant_lot/pseuds/vacant_lot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Tord use each other in weird ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm starting to doubt your commitment to our situation

Tom Thompson watched as the mix of blood and water circled down the drain. His nose dripped a bright red, an almost blinding shade with highlights from his bathroom’s ugly fluorescent lights. He looked up for a moment, examining his face in the mirror. For that split second, he thought he looked good. He looked rugged, a kind of Indiana Jones sexiness that only maybe one or two people would think actually sexy. The lights, an equally ugly dull shine, cast shadows on his face that moved when he moved, and only created contrast when leaning close to the mirror. In his mind he thought about counting every hair on his chin, or every pore, or every blackhead that peppered invisibly on his nose. 

His nose.

Shit. 

The blood continued to drip and the water continued to run. 

Tom snapped out of it, quickly looking back down. He splashed water on his face, quiet as the water stung the exposed rims of his eyes. He didn’t want to wake his parents, or else he’d have a LOT of explaining to do. 

You see, Tom went on a date tonight. 

He goes on dates every Saturday night. He does this so he can sleep in, rightfully, on Sunday, and then proceed to go to school Monday. The week is just one long routine until the next Saturday night. It’s all he had in this life for a little bit of spice, and it’s all he needs. He gets his action, in both terms of the word. 

Every Saturday night he goes on a date with Tord Larsin. They’re fulfilling, to say the least. 

Tom met Tord in their first year of high school, if he remembered correctly, it was geometry class. He hated him the moment he laid eyes on him. He wore an ugly, black trench coat, carried plastic cutlery in his pocket, and toted around a sketchbook scrawled with poorly drawn busty women and anime figures. Tord was repulsive to Tom, and frankly, he still was. However, they’re in year 12 now, and a lot has changed.

Yes, Tom hated Tord’s mushy, assumably red guts. He hated the way Tord’s accent was still uncomfortably thick despite living in England for the past ten years of his life. He hated the way Tord often arrived to school with bandages on his face, later explained by Tord that he has trouble shaving with such rusty razors. He hated the way Tord walked, the way he breathed, the way he interacted with other people at school. He hated that his friends like Tord. He hated that Tord had other friends. 

He hated it all, just like he did when they first met. But, there was always a catch when growing older. Tom has learned a lot these past few years. He’s caught in a safe zone with his relationships right now, adolescence allowing him to get away with all sorts of unnamed feelings and emotions. But one thing was for certain. 

Tord was now everything to him. 

The night started like any other night. Tord picked him up from his house in his father’s unattractive pickup truck. It was so loud and so unkempt you would most likely hear it coming from blocks away. Tom would be waiting on his front porch step, sitting idly and staring blankly at the cracks in the concrete under his checkered sneakers. Then he would hear the truck bumbling down the way, and his stomach would not immediately. 

They’ve been doing this for months now, and Tom still gets giddy and nervous.

It would be cute, if it were any other couple.

Tord would slam on his brakes right in front of the Thompson residence, a trail of exhaust following delicately behind. Tom would take a deep breath, stand up and walk with heavy steps to the passenger side, sliding in shamefully and looking at Tord’s grinning face with mildly faux disgust.

“You’re late.” Tom said flatly.

“Only for you,” Tord replied.

He would slam on the gas pedal and peel out, and Tom’s stomach would knot up even more. 

Snapping back to reality, Tom stared down at the pool of now clear water surrounding his bathroom sink’s drain. Padding his face dry with a towel, he turns and exits the bathroom, shutting off the light last. Crossing a narrow hallway soundlessly, he enters his bedroom. The only article of clothing he discards are his jeans, tossing them haphazardly onto the floor, along with the now dampened bathroom towel. As he falls onto his bed, he lets himself continue to recollect the memories of this night, as he does after every rendezvous with Tord. 

Tord took him to a park. It wasn’t a child’s park, but more of a recreational park, with too much grass and not enough trees and the perfect amount of people walking their dogs. Tord parked his truck next to one of the larger trees so he remembered where it was when it was time to bring Tom back home.

They started walking aimlessly, hands brushing occasionally, shoulders bumping every few steps. 

Eventually, one of them would take initiative and grab the others hand. Tonight, surprisingly, it was Tord. He was rougher than Tom’s usual stealthiness when taking Tord’s hand, but the harshness wasn’t a complaint. It conveyed many unspoken messages on Tord’s part, and thankfully, Tom would receive them loud and clear.

Tonight, they walked and spoke only about films. That seemed to be the common ground with both of them. They were both movie buffs, in their own weird way. Tom adored classic comedies and action thrillers, as compared to Tord, who watched horror and scifi religiously. As they walked and talked and held hands, they unofficially set up a movie date to come in the following week, when a movie they both mutually were interested in was supposed to hit theatres. 

“I mean, I heard it was supposed to be a dark comedy. Interesting, I’m sure.” Tord would say, and Tom would roll, if he could, his eyes. 

They’d argue about the logistics of dark comedy as they walked the park’s main trail, sparse of people and void of too much darkness, due to the lit lamp posts. Tom could feel the uncomfortable warmth of sweat building between his palm and Tord’s.

He supposed it was about time to get started on this then.

Tord must have sensed so, too, because almost immediately after the thought had past each of them, silence filed in and took it’s seat in the conversation.

There was Tom’s cue. 

They stopped, and Tom turned to look eye level with Tord. Neither one was taller than the other yet, and that somehow made this part of their date transaction easier. 

“Ready?” Tom asked.

“When am I not?”

Tom pulled a face. “Ugh. You’re so cocky.”

“I’d consider it more charming than cocky.”

Tord smiled sickly as he said so, and he let go of Tom’s hand and got into position. Feet planted on the ground, he brought up his fists to his face in a boxing fashion. Tom mirrored him, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. 

This is where their relationship, if you could even call it that, became a little less ideal. 

Tom threw the first punch, flinging himself forward in Tord’s direction. Tord dodged expertly and this caused the blue clad boy to catch himself, almost stumbling, as he expected his fist to land and cause impact. Tom spun around, gritting his teeth beneath his lips. The rush started to kick in around here, and as his eyes met Tord’s, Tord lunged. 

His fist caught Tom right against his right side, and it briefly knocked the wind out of him. 

“You slimy motherfucker,” Tom breathed, standing up straighter and attempting to collect his breath and nurse the surprising wound. Tord shrugged as he cuffed his black trench coat’s sleeves up. “What can I say?” he muttered, his accent thicker than earlier when the two were engaged in idle chit chat. “You should know my tricks by now.”

“Yeah,” Tom replied, and as he did so, he swung hard at Tord’s face, considering the opening left when he went to roll up his sleeves. Tord reeled back a bit after the initial shock of the hit, expression bewildered before turning darker.

“And you should know mine.” Tom spat to the side, tasting a hint of saline blood in his mouth. He must have bit his tongue on impulse with the violence of his prior action. 

The brawl continued like that. They duked it out, mostly missing each other on accident. 

Something about this spar seemed different, however. Tom felt it, and as he moved to block a swing from Tord, he wondered if he felt it too. 

Tom’s body was ablaze with passion of the fight, but his mind was somewhere else. He couldn’t place his finger on where his thought exactly were, though. He just knew that all he could conjure was blurs of color and emotion and questions and tastes. Everything seemed to make sense, but also seem like pure nonsense. His brain was being taken over by visions of black and red, and his heart felt heavy and his mouth tasted dry, like dirt. His hand formed a tighter fist and he nailed Tord hard in the shoulder. 

He saw Tord’s lips form a cuss word, but he couldn’t put sound to the movement. He just saw the lips move, pink and thin and chapped and all around disgusting, but terribly enticing. Tom’s ears went deaf, too many thoughts buzzing in his head at one time. This, coupled with the actions and exercise of his body, it all felt. Unreal. 

Tord. He hated Tord. He hated Tord and wished he never had been born half of the time. But he holds Tord’s hand. He kisses Tord goodbye, usually unbeknownst to the rest of their friends almost everyday after school. He lets himself be kissed by Tord. They sabotage each other every day in different ways. They argue at a constant rate. They’ve gotten into so many physical fights that they have detention together more so than they do lunch. And they do shit like this. But Tom let’s it all happen. Willingly. He never has made a move, in all these years, to remove Tord from his life.It would be so simple, so easy, to just tell Tord to fuck right off and cut him out completely. But now, Tom is realizing, what they have is too deep. The unidentified emotions Tom experiences here every passing Saturday throws him deeper and deeper into the abyss that is his affiliation with Tord Larsin. He would stand by Tord. He would fight against Tord. He would touch and feel and hurt and kiss Tord. But. 

Would Tom let himself be fucked by Tord, too?

That last thought made Tom’s activity, physical and mental, grind to a halt completely. His fist stopped mid-swing, his expression turned to realization. He wanted to drag Tord in the mud, break him, make him eat trash.

But he wouldn’t mind dragging him to bed, too.

This made Tom mentally confront himself. What was their situation? What were they at this point? This was more than a little fun, right? This was way different than their middle school rivalry. 

The paralyzing pause Tom took was hair too long apparently, and before he knew it, he felt his nose meet the harsh bone of Tord’s bandaged fist. Upon hearing the cartilage crack and the pain strike white, Tom was knocked back to the point of almost toppling. He caught himself, however, a firsthand witness to reality knocking him back to the present. 

Tord laughed maliciously, yet boyishly. “Stupid Tom! Where were you?” He panted, as did Tom, hunching over to catch air. It was hard to look Tord in the eye for a moment, lingering thoughts of his former speculation still hazing about in his senses. 

Yet, Tom’s upper lip felt wet, and he brought his fingers up to feel the cause. 

His nose was gushing blood. 

He looked to Tord as he tried to stand straighter. He was bruised in the face, lower lip split. Sheesh, Tom must of really done a number on him through his subconscious, emotional pummeling. The two seemed to stare each other down before Tom took opportunity first. It was a true “fuck it!” moment as he continued. He closed the empty space between them with a few steps, hands firmly placed on Tord’s hips. Tom kissed him roughly, all prior conflicting thoughts and frustrations being spoken through the action. 

So much poured through when they kissed after a fight. Whether it be a verbal one or a physical one, the post make outs were always rewarding and messy. 

Tord didn’t even flinch. He tasted their blood mix in a revolting tasting blend when their tongues met, and his hands reached up to cup either side of Tom’s slightly stubbly face. He could feel the cerebral whirlwind that was in Tom’s head second handedly. Tom’s grip on his hips tightened and he leaned even closer, causing Tord to arch his back up into him. They rutted against each other for a moment, but both stopped when they remembered they were in the middle of a parks trail in the middle of the night. 

He felt the bruise beneath his ribs start to bloom as he was kissed, and that (and the lack of air) caused Tom to break away with a wince. Tord, for a split second, looked as if he showed concern, but it was quickly replaced with a smug smile. “You get weaker every day.” He stated.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tom grumbled before detaching himself from Tord. He wiped saliva and blood from his mouth and had to stop himself from gagging. What a vomit inducing urge they both have. Tom’s nose was still bleeding but not as violently, and as they both walked in close silence back to the truck, Tom could feel the drying blood from earlier crust over on the corner of his mouth. 

 

Tord would drive Tom back home. Tom would press himself close against the passenger car door, expression fixed and bitter on the dashboard. His hand would lay limp by his side, however, and as Tord drove in the quiet back to Tom’s memorized home address, he would put his hand gently on top of the others. 

Neither thought it was surprising.

Or maybe they did, and were just too bothered by it to mention it aloud. 

They stopped out in front of Tom’s house and before he got out, Tord gripped his hand. “Wait,” 

“What do you want?” Tom turned, looking very sick and tired. 

“I’m starting to doubt your commitment to our- er. Situation.” 

Tom hated the way his accent lilted with the last word. _Situation._ Ugh, what an asshole. Of course it’s a situation! What other relationship gets along like this? Borderline abusive? Borderline in love? Oh, God. They weren’t in love. Tom wouldn’t allow anything like that, ugly and uncomfortable. The indecision of Tom’s feelings shouldn’t matter at this point. He was trying so hard to train himself to be ambivalent to everything he felt towards Tord. He was in his life too much, yet not enough. He wanted to kick his teeth in, but lay with him for hours. Tom’s heart started to race and his mind started to envision nothing but white noise, just like earlier when he lost the fight. Tord snapped his fingers in front of his face, letting go of Tom’s hand. 

“Well?” He asked. Tom stared at him blankly, face drained of color. 

“Uh. What did you say?”

“I asked if you didn’t want to do this anymore.” Tord quipped, looking away from Tom’s gaze. The air felt heavy and hurt. Tom’s stomach dipped. 

Did he not want to do this anymore?

It was like earlier, when he was mentally boxing with himself. Whether or not he wanted Tord in or out of the picture was beyond him. Wracking his brain for a logical explanation, panic settled on the back of his mind. This wasn’t considered a breakup, right? They weren’t even technically dating. They were just exclusive. They were exclusive and used each other every so often to unstress when necessary. He shouldn’t be taking this thing as seriously as he was. With the thought overload that has taken place three times so far this past hour and a half, He settled on a simple answer. 

Tom leaned over and brushed his lips to Tord’s before opening the car door, slowly slipping out. 

“I’ll see you Monday.” Tom said, shutting the car door. 

That was good enough for Tord. 

And now Tom lays in bed, tired and sore and waiting for the next sign of Tord to show up in his life, whether it be on social media, real life, or a phone call. 

It was official that Tom hated Tord. Everyone knew, and it was pretty obvious. 

It was also official that there was something between them, no matter how confusing it was, it was stable, and Tord was everything. What the future held for their relationship was unknown, but for now they were in a safe zone, a world of their own in which only the two of them could understand. It wasn’t that Tom hated himself or that he loved surrounding himself with things he hated. He didn’t have any masochistic urges.

But he did know one thing. Tord was familiar. Tord was a constant in his life. Tord was unchanging, as everything else was seeming to, along with the sting of growing older. 

Tord was the conflict and the solution to the place he was in right now, and Tom would take what he could get.

**Author's Note:**

> thank god thats over
> 
> anyway! i really wanted to write something that delved into internal character conflict- i hope that was conveyed properly through tom sheesh 
> 
> (also this isn't beta'd so sorry for any mistakes lmao


End file.
